Insulated From Myself
by Icca
Summary: A young boy who has grown up in a lab catches a glimpse of humanity with the help of a baby girl. Young Sephiroth story.


She was in a crib. Just a baby.

She must not have been just any baby, though. A multitude of wires and tubes lead from various machines to the girl, creating the illusion that she herself was just an extension of those instruments. Adding to the effect was the fact she barely moved; motor skills were yet undeveloped and the spider web of wires restricted her. But her eyes shone with humanity.

They sparkled, her eyes, and the boy who watched her imagined that she saw a secret. Those green eyes could see beyond the obvious, see something the boy would never know.

A wall of glass separated the crib from the rest of the room, and the boy pressed his tiny hands against that wall, willing it to disappear so he could approach her, look her straight in those eyes that saw what was not there. The men and women who monitored the machines and jotted notes took no notice of him. He may as well have been invisible.

He pulled his hands away after a few moments, dropping them to his sides. He would have left, but the baby turned her head, then, and her gaze captured him. He could not hear her if she gurgled, but he saw her smile.

It was beautiful, unusual, almost inconceivable. If he had known of cherubs, he would have dubbed this girl an angel.

The professor was watching the baby, too, although he was not taking notes this time. It seemed that the professor always had the most notes to take on any subject, but today he merely observed. He left the paperwork to his assistants. It was unlikely he trusted them to record everything the way he wanted; he was never satisfied. Probably, he was waiting for something to happen and did not care to split his attention.

"Why is she in there?" The boy pivoted to face the professor, green eyes shining with youth and curiosity.

Without sparing a glance, the professor answered the boy, "Because she is special. She needs special attention."

Special. That word haunted the boy, a ghost that represented all of his insecurities and at the same time represented all of his pride. It was how people described him. This girl was special, too? He turned to stare at her again, his eyes wide, his mouth slightly agape. Special.

He had been asked questions and put through tests all his life. Nothing he accomplished seemed enough to sate the professor. No one smiled at him, and he did not smile at others. It was because he was special that he experienced this. It was because he was special that he felt the prick of a needle so often and was pressured to excel academically in difficult subjects. He was too intelligent for regular schooling and yet he was not intelligent enough for the professor. He was a failure, even though he was better than his peers. Adults gave him a wide berth, even though they seemed to never see him at all. Special.

And this girl, this humanity in the heart of machinery and science, she too was special? The thought made colors seem darker and a snarl spread across his thin lips.

His kick was swift, sudden, and angry. When that did not break through the glass, he pounded fists against the barrier, screeching. The force behind each blow as he tried to break through represented eight years of tantrums he had never thrown. Eight years of pent up emotions released themselves furiously. He shouted something over and over as a mantra. He was unaware of his tortured screams just as he was unaware of the lab assistants that tried to pull him away. Flailing arms repelled them; he was special and he was strong.

But he was also only eight years old, and even if he was strong, he did not know how to break out of a hold. He found himself suddenly restricted, arms pinned behind him as his shoulders wrenched in pain. Although he kicked wildly, he could not connect. The girl was being dragged away from him, or perhaps he from her. His screams turned frantic and hysterical. He needed her. He needed his angel. More importantly, he needed the girl who was special like he was.

As he was dragged further away, he suddenly snapped back to the present. He saw stunned staff members, some sporting bruises. He saw the professor who had never once moved, who simply watched dispassionately as the boy had slipped away from reason. He saw the girl, too. She was crying.

Into another room he was dragged, and his captor hand-cuffed him before sitting him down in a chair. A blue-suited man wearing a serious face positioned himself in front of the boy to watch him. He did not smile but merely looked at the boy as he would look at a burnt-out lamp or a TV that only displayed snow. The boy was an object that temporarily held interest because of a defect. Once the flaw was corrected, the object would again fade into the background.

The professor entered the room then, eyed the sullen and bound boy, and flicked an off-handed wave to the blue-suited man. Dismissed, the boy's captor exited the room, on his way passing a key to the professor. The scientist faced the youth, leaning against the wall next to the door and idly rubbing the key between his thin fingers. He let the silence hold for well over a minute before he spoke. "You object to the word 'special,'" he observed, eyeing the boy over the rims of his thick glasses. "You hear that there is another person who is special, and you start raving and screaming. 'Special, special, special.'" His lips curled slightly into a twisted parody of the angel's smile.

The boy's eyes never left the professor's face, and though he was silent and had already managed to compose himself back to outward stoicism, his eyes still held anger. And they held fear.

"I assure you," the professor continued, pacing slowly to the back of the boy's chair to unshackle him, his voice dropping to a conspirator's whisper in the boy's ear, "that you are far more special than that girl will ever be."

Two clicks, and the boy was free. He remained silent as he followed the professor back to the lab, head hung slightly in embarrassment. He stopped when the professor did, and with him, watched the baby. Now the boy, too, was waiting for something. Perhaps the they were waiting for the same thing. They could wait together, then.

Even when the professor slipped into his office, the boy remained alone to watch, hoping to catch another glimpse of that smile.

He never did.


End file.
